


The Soloist

by awkwardnarturtle



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Hunk (Voltron) is so Pure, M/M, as well as fatalistic humor, grudges from middle school, i got sad so i wrote this, inspired by my sister because she's a wonderful flutist, keith is good at art (haha), lance is a flute player, some vulgar language, they're both big ol idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:29:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardnarturtle/pseuds/awkwardnarturtle
Summary: “Oh, wow,” Lance scoffed, bitter and harsh. “Of course. Of course you wouldn’t remember your rival through middle school.”“Middle school?” Keith asked, bewildered. He remembered nothing from middle school, and that was an active choice he’d made. Also, this guy was holding a grudge from middle school?orLance is a beautiful flute player and Keith is a gay mess of an artist.





	The Soloist

**Author's Note:**

> hello i finished the banana fish manga last night and got the most sad ever,,,,,,,, i refuse to accept it due to the fact that im sad bUT ANYWAY since i was a mess i decided to try and cheer myself up with some pure klance
> 
> it turned out a little longer than i expected. also in case anyone was wondering, im still sad. i just wanted my banana boys to be happy fuhffgsks
> 
> enjoy!

It was a day for wandering.

 

Keith’s class had been cancelled because his professor hadn’t felt like teaching, and Keith had a total of zero friends he felt like hanging out with. So he decided he’d wander around the campus and see what he could fill his sketchbook with, which is incidentally what he did normally.

 

He wasn’t in the mood for the scenery of the business buildings or the science and math buildings, so he headed to the one place he didn’t go too often. The music hall.

 

Always, people were out and about in the music hall - practicing, singing, yelling, you name it. Keith wasn’t a big fan of all the noise, so he generally avoided it. But he felt like a change of pace.

 

He put in his ear buds and blasted the music as high as he could handle in an effort to cancel out most of the loud sounds, and then he set about trying to find a place to set up camp. Outside was too hot - he felt like he might melt straight into the cobblestones. Inside was a gamble - would there be places to sit? Places that weren’t overwhelming?   
  


He looked up at the sweltering sun, wincing. He’s a gambling man, anyway. Inside it is.

 

A couple of music students gave him strange looks as he walked into the music hall - no doubt territorial in the way that he’d heard most music students were, but he bypassed them without a second glance. The first place he came across was the auditorium, which seemed to be the site of some sort of concert, judging by the kid passing out programs by the entrance. Keith grabbed a program and ventured inside, feeling the rush of cool air as he walked in.

 

The auditorium was architecturally beautiful. It was dark save for a stage with an organ in a back that ventured toward the ceiling of the spacious area. The walls were strangely staggered and boxy - something to do with acoustics, Keith guessed. He loved it.

 

Not a lot of people were sitting in the auditorium seats, and so Keith sat nearer to the stage with a whole lot of empty seats around him. It seemed to be quiet in the auditorium, and so he took out his ear buds and turned off his music, relishing in the purposeful silence of the place. The concert or whatever hadn’t started yet, and so there was a sense of held breath surrounding the air. Anticipation.

 

Keith took his sketchbook and a pencil out of his bag, flipping to a blank page and starting to sketch out the layout of the empty stage. He’d just finished a rough sketch of it when a side door to the stage opened up, revealing a girl carrying out a stand of music and a flute. Keith dropped his pencil for a moment to check the program.

 

It was advertising for a flute choir concert with several solos and duets sprinkled into the mix. He debated putting in his earbuds again.

Not that he had anything against flutes of course, but he didn’t really think they were great for his inspiration what with all the screeching. 

 

So maybe he did have something against flutes. It wasn’t his fault the kid living in the apartment next to his when he was growing up had screamed into his flute every night at 11:30 for  _ years.  _ Lost sleep is something you never really get over.

 

The girl started playing, and she wasn’t that bad, Keith supposed. He flipped the page in his sketchbook and started sketching her out, just to get some practice in anatomy. She flubbed a couple notes, but Keith wasn’t really paying attention to any of that. He was trying to get the shading on her shirt right.

 

Her solo ended, and the audience clapped politely. Keith gave her a couple claps, and then returned to his sketchbook.

 

The next few duets and solos were much of the same thing. They weren’t bad, per se, but Keith didn’t really care about listening to them. Even when they threw a piano into the mix. It was good figure practice, though, and he learned that drawing grand pianos is  _ really hard,  _ so there’s that.

 

A new soloist opened the door to the stage, laughing about something. He waved back through the still open door playfully, and then proceeded to the stage, a crooked smile still on his face. Keith looked over the half-hearted formal attire - black slacks, a plain white button down that was untucked with the sleeves rolled up, and black loafers. Who even wore loafers anymore?   
  


The soloist arranged the music on his stand, blowing warm air into his flute. When he was ready, his posture straightened, and his laughing eyes turned serious. Keith blinked. In the span of maybe half a second, the guy had changed auras entirely; his gaze was razor sharp and his stance was fluid and relaxed. Like a fighter. 

 

From the first note he played, Keith was hooked. He couldn’t take his eyes off of him, not even to try and sketch him out. Each note was clear and refined, and Keith almost couldn’t believe he watching the music take form and come into existence before his own eyes. With each swell of sound and music, the soloist’s body moved with it, smooth and controlled, as if the music wasn’t coming from the instrument, but rather from  _ him. _

 

A sharp note pierced the air, and then it was finished. The audience clapped politely, the soloist bowed, and Keith couldn’t take a breath until the guy had left the stage. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing out a sigh.

 

Well, that was weird.

 

After the soloist was all the flute choir together, and Keith was sort of ashamed to admit that he only payed attention because the soloist had come back onstage. All the performers were sitting down, and the soloist that Keith cared about was sitting closest to the audience, holding a larger and curvier flute than before. It seemed his regular one was on a stand next to his chair.

 

As the choir performed, Keith sketched out the soloist, watching his tanned fingers dance over the keys, watching his chest expand with breath and life and music. He sketched him playing the big flute, and then when he switched back to the regular one, he sketched that out to. It was like Keith was under a spell.

 

The concert ended soon after, and Keith sat in his seat for a bit looking over his sketches until someone told him to leave. He snapped the sketchbook closed before they could see the embarrassing amount of drawings he’d done of the soloist and left in a hurry.

 

As he was speed-walking out of the auditorium, he rammed straight into someone else, almost falling straight onto his butt, but just managing to catch himself. The other guy wasn’t so lucky.

 

He’d actually landed on his butt, hugging his flute case tightly to his chest, his music scattered over the floor. “Ow,” he said, and Keith stared.

 

It was the soloist. The one Keith had sketched out over a dozen times. The one Keith had realized was really, really,  _ really  _ beautiful when he’d sketched him out maybe the third time. He was even more devastating up close. Keith felt like dying a little.

 

“Shit,” he finally said when he’d come back to his senses. “I’m so sorry.” He quickly knelt down, starting to gather up the music that had fallen out of the soloist’s folder.

 

“Nah, it’s no big deal,” the soloist said breezily, setting aside his flute case and gathering up the music, too. 

 

Keith looked over at him, admiring his long eyelashes and sun-kissed skin. When the soloist looked up, too, ocean blue eyes met his, and Keith felt like dying but in a different way before.

 

“Wait,” the soloist said, narrowing his eyes at Keith. “Never mind. It  _ is  _ a big deal.”

 

“What?” Keith asked, blinking, wondering why the soloist seemed so angry now.

 

“I can’t believe this,” the soloist scoffed, snatching his music from Keith and standing up. “You’re still the same, Keith Kogane,” he said, shaking his head. “Once a raging asshole, always a raging asshole, I guess.”

 

Keith had never been more confused in his life.

 

“You probably bumped into me on purpose,” the soloist said, straightening out his music as he stood above Keith. “Trying to sabotage my flute. Well, guess what? I’ve foiled your diabolical plans to ruin my life,” he said, pointing accusingly at Keith, who still had no idea why he was being attacked. “Maybe try harder next time,” the soloist said, starting to walk away. “Or just stay out of my life forever.”

 

After a few seconds, Keith got up from his spot on the floor and then proceeded to walk calmly back to his dorm. Only then did he allow himself a freak out.

 

How had that soloist known his full name? And how come he was so angry? What was even happening?   
  


He dumped the contents of his bag on his bed, grabbing his sketchbook and flipping to the pages that he’d crammed the concert program in for lack of better place to put it. He traced the names on the program with his finger, trying to find the right soloist.

 

Lance McLain.

 

The name sort of sounded familiar, but Keith couldn’t quite place it.

 

His roommate, Hunk, came in at the exact moment Keith was ready to tear his own hair out. “Hey, buddy,” he said carefully, “how’s it going?”

 

“Do you know a Lance McLain?” Keith asked, whipping around to face Hunk.

 

“Um, sure. I had a class or two with him last year. Cool guy,” he said, hands up as if he was afraid Keith would attack.

 

“He hates me,” Keith said, and Hunk frowned.

 

“Why?”

 

“I have no idea.”

  
  


-

  
  


It had been a few days since The Incident, as Keith was calling it in his brain, and he had yet to place Lance McLain. Hunk had tried to talk him through it, but it didn’t help. He still couldn’t remember.

 

He ended up back at the music hall. Not really because he wanted to, really, but because he needed to. He needed to find Lance McLain.

 

Again, he was given several weird looks for walking in, but he ignored them just like before. He wandered around for a bit until he found what looked like a practice area with a bunch of tiny rooms with people practicing in them. Keith looked in them, but the soloist he was looking for wasn’t in any of them. 

 

There was no luck inside, and so Keith walked outside on the other side of the music hall, looking around. It looked like a little courtyard, and it was mostly empty, probably from the heat. Keith walked through the courtyard, sighing.

 

Until.

 

He found his soloist.

 

Lance McLain was leaning back against a tree, fingering through something on his flute. His eyes were closed, and his lips were pursed, like he was blowing air. But no sound was coming from him or the flute, and Keith almost lamented that fact.

 

For a moment, Keith watched, admiring the soloist’s outstretched legs, delicately crossed at his ankles, and his long fingers, dancing over silver keys. He didn’t want to interrupt. But.

 

He cleared his throat.

 

The soloist opened his eyes, bright blue, and when his eyes caught on Keith, he scowled. “What are you doing here?” he spit, and Keith really couldn’t believe the transformation. It was like when he saw the switch flip from casual to performance when he first saw him, but a whole lot more negative.

 

“Hi,” Keith said rather lamely. “Sorry.”

 

Lance raised his eyebrows, lowering his flute into his lap. “What for?”

 

“I don’t remember you,” Keith said, and Lance looked about ready to explode.

 

_ “Excuse me?”  _ he nearly screamed, and Keith winced. “You  _ what?” _

 

“I have no idea who you are,” Keith said, hoping this time it was a little more clear. “You seem to know who I am, but I can’t think of how or why.”

 

“Oh, wow,” Lance scoffed, bitter and harsh. “Of course. Of course you wouldn’t remember your  _ rival  _ through middle school.”

“Middle school?” Keith asked, bewildered. He remembered nothing from middle school, and that was an active choice he’d made. Also, this guy was holding a grudge from  _ middle school? _

 

“Yes, middle school, mullet head.” Well, now, there was no reason to say  _ that.  _ “You always made me feel like shit for practicing.”

 

Practicing? 

 

Lance seemed to tell that Keith was still confused, so he held up his flute, waving it around a little. “You would scream at me and bang on the walls. And then glare at me at school, especially when my grades were better than yours.”

 

And then all of the sudden, Keith remembered. That awful punk that’d screamed into his flute  _ exclusively  _ at ungodly hours of the night. Lance McLain. 

 

“Oh,” Keith said, starting to feel the hate. “You.”

 

“Yeah, me,” Lance said, getting up and dusting off his jeans. “Thanks so much for ruining my childhood and my day, asshole.” He brushed past him angrily, and Keith scowled, stomping back to his dorm.

 

When he got back, he yanked open his sketchbook, intending to rip out all the sketches of the stupid soloist asshole Lance McLain, but when he laid eyes on the sketches, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. They were too beautiful.

 

Keith slumped down at his desk, shoving the sketchbook away. Screw pretty boys.

  
  


-

  
  


Because Keith was a broke college student, he had a job. At the university bookstore. It was close to his dorm, which is why Keith had applied there, and it wasn’t the worst job possible. 

 

His boss, Coran, walked out of the back, twisting his mustache. “Oh, Keith, I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I hired another employee. He’s coming for training today, and you’ll train him, okay?”

 

A little more warning would’ve been nice, but Keith didn’t really mind. “Okay,” he said, going through his duties of counting the money at the register and checking the records.

 

The bell at the front rang, and Coran jumped up. “Hey! We’ve been waiting for you!”

 

Keith looked up. Lance McLain was standing at the front door.

 

“Well, Keith, meet your new coworker and trainee, Lance,” he said walking over to Lance and throwing an arm around his shoulder.

 

Suddenly it was the worst job ever.

 

“Lance,” Keith said through gritted teeth.

 

“Mullet,” Lance growled back, and Coran grinned.

 

“Oh, good, you already know each other. That should make everything so much easier,” Coran said cheerily. 

 

“Of course,” Keith said, wishing that he was jobless.

 

 

-

  
  


Over the next couple of days, Keith learned that training Lance McLain wasn’t that bad. He took in information pretty easily, and he didn’t make training him super hard like Keith thought he would. He wouldn’t talk more than what was necessary, and when he had troubles, he would go to Keith (after a solid five minutes of struggling by himself). Overall, Keith didn’t hate him more than he thought he would.

 

Which in turn made him a little angry.

 

Keith usually manned the register, and since he was the senior employee, that still stood. The bookstore wasn’t busy most of the time, and so he would use the time to practice sketching out the layout of the store with little doodles in the shelves and aisles. Like usual.

 

Except now Mr. Pretty Boy Lance McLain was there, and he was putting away some new arrivals right in the area Keith was sketching, and Keith couldn’t  _ not  _ draw him. Even if Lance was the subject of his anger during his childhood, he was beautiful in a way that Keith admired. Long, graceful limbs, tanned and smooth skin, short hair that curled just the slightest. He also noticed with all the close proximity that Lance had freckles. Of course he did.

 

“What are you staring at, shit-brain?” Lance asked, with only a little bit of malice. Keith rolled his eyes and looked back down at his sketchbook. He was done with Lance anyway.

 

Lance finished up putting away the books and rolled the cart over to the register, glancing over at Keith. Out of pure survival instinct, Keith snapped his sketchbook closed and narrowed his eyes at Lance. 

 

“What are you always drawing anyway?” Lance asked, reaching a hand out to try and grab Keith’s sketchbook. 

 

Keith snatched it away, glaring at him. “None of your business.”

 

“I bet it’s, like, Naruto fanart or something,” Lance said with a scoff, rolling the cart to the back. Keith opened his mouth and closed it, not unlike a fish.

 

“I do  _ not  _ draw Naruto fanart,” Keith said back, but it sounded lame even to him.

 

“Yeah, sure, Naruto’s biggest fan,” Lance called, and Keith fumed.

  
  


-

  
  


There was a pretty girl in the bookstore. Of course, she wasn’t Keith’s type - no girl was, but he started drawing her anyway. Lance snuck up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

 

“Oh, so you’re just a pervert,” he whispered, and Keith jumped, slamming the book closed. Lance laughed. “Good to know that you’re a disgusting creep.”

 

“It’s just a study of anatomy,” Keith defended, and Lance rolled his eyes.

 

“Mhm, sure, creep.”

 

Keith watched as Lance proceeded to flirt obnoxiously with the girl for the duration of the girl’s visit to the store. The girl wasn’t as receptive to it as Lance seemed to think, and she left the store without buying anything. She also flipped Lance off as he blew a kiss to her.

 

“Who’s the creep now?” Keith asked as Lance returned to the counter, unbothered.

 

“At least I don’t draw  _ anatomy studies  _ of people who aren’t aware they’re being studied,” he said without hesitation. Keith blushed. If only he knew.

 

“Shut it, asshole.”

  
  


-

 

 

Lance came into the bookstore in a rage. Not screaming or anything, just slamming things around and grumbling to himself. Keith, who had refused to do his homework the day before and was now trying to catch up on two days worth of essays and studies, was not having it.

 

“Could you stop being so annoying?” he growled, throwing an eraser stub at Lance. He caught the eraser stub, glaring at him.

 

“I’m not feeling it today, dick head,” he growled back, throwing the eraser stub back at Keith with deadly force. Keith only just managed to keep his life.

 

“I’m not feeling it  _ any  _ day, shit for brains,” Keith said, picking up the eraser stub and slamming it back down on the counter.

 

Lance mimicked him rudely, disappearing into the aisles.  _ Real mature,  _ Keith thought, returning to his homework.

 

Minutes passed by, and Keith started making a dent in his essay on art history, which was a miracle in itself. Until there was a loud crash and a series of loud curse words that would’ve made a sailor blush.

 

Keith jumped up, sprinting to the place where he thought the noise had come from and finding Lance buried in a pile of books. He was still cursing as he stood up, his posture stiff and angry. There were tears in his eyes, and when he saw Keith, he turned his back to him, crossing his arms.

 

“Go away, mullet head,” he said, his voice rough and weak, “I can take care of it myself.”

 

Ignoring him, Keith started gathering up the books.  _ “What  _ has got your panties all in a twist today?” Keith asked, mostly exasperated and a little concerned and a little angry that he felt concern. 

 

Lance turned around, sniffing angrily and staring as Keith gathered the books in his arms. He snatched up the one from the top of the stack and put it in the right place. “None of your business,” he grumbled, taking more books off of Keith’s stack and putting them away.

 

“Actually, I think it  _ is  _ my business if you’re going to keep acting like this at your workplace,” Keith replied hotly, letting Lance storm around and replace the books. Lance didn’t say anything for a moment. “Hey,” Keith said to the wall of Lance’s back, “answer me.”

 

But Lance didn’t say anything until all the books were put away. And when they were all finally put away, he didn’t face Keith, his fists clenched and his shoulders tense.

 

“I botched my audition, okay?” he said, whirling around to face Keith so that he could see all the ugly anger contorting his beautiful face. “I didn’t pay attention to my cuts -  _ rookie mistake  _ \- and I flubbed the parts I thought I had down.” He wiped his eyes roughly, still glaring at Keith. “And I couldn’t even ask to start over because it was a silent audition, and now I’m probably going to be in last band where I fucking belong, I guess.” He took in a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling and blinking hard and fast. “Not that you would care. You probably  _ love  _ that I suck at playing.”

 

Very little of what Lance had said made sense to Keith, given that Keith wasn’t all that up to date on band lingo, but Keith got the general idea. 

 

“You don’t,” he said, before he could think too hard.

 

“What?” Lance asked, looking back at him.

 

“You don’t suck,” Keith said, starting to panic because he wasn’t really sure what he was doing or why he was doing it. Lance rolled his eyes at him, starting to turn away. “Really,” Keith rushed on, “you don’t. I’ve heard you play, and it’s not sucky or awful. It’s…” Keith trailed off, taking in Lance looking at him with angry tears and an angry heart. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Lance looked away. “You’re just saying that to-”

 

“I’m not,” Keith interrupted. “I’m saying that because it’s the truth. You play well, better than well, and whoever’s judging those auditions would be idiots not to hear that.”

 

Silence stretched between them, and Keith wasn’t sure what he wanted Lance to say. Or what he wanted to say. 

 

Finally, Lance spoke.

 

“Okay,” he said, nodding his head and looking at Keith a little strangely. “Okay,” he repeated.

 

“Okay,” Keith said back, not really sure why. And they went back to doing their jobs without saying anything else.

  
  


-

  
  


The next day, Keith was feeling a little jittery as he went into work. He was strangely excited, but he wasn’t sure why, and he sort of liked it. When Lance came in, his heart thumped rather uncomfortably, he took a deep breath.

 

Lance didn’t do is normal greeting of insulting him in some way, instead walking over to the counter, tapping it lightly with his delicate fingers.

 

“I made principle flutist,” he said, and Keith blinked.

 

“Is that good?”

 

“The best.”

 

Keith smiled a little, nerves jittery. “I knew it,” he said, and Lance started to smile.

 

“Yeah,” he said, his smile growing and reaching his eyes. “Thanks, Keith.”

  
  


-

  
  


There was a decisive shift in the way they treated each other. They still insulted each other most of the time, but there was no malice to it, no anger. Keith let himself sketch out Lance even more, but when Lance tried to peek, he still snatched his sketchbook away.

 

“Naruto fanart again?” he asked, and Keith tried to slow his fast beating heart.

 

“Oh, you know it,” he said, trying not to get caught on the way Lance’s smiled crooked up a little more on one side than the other.

 

When Lance caught him staring, he smiled like that. “What are you looking at, mullet head?” he’d ask, and Keith would try really hard not to smile like an idiot.

 

“None of your business,” he’d say back.

 

Keith went back to his dorm each night with a small smile on his face, and one day, Hunk asked him about it. “You seem happier lately,” he said, looking up from his textbook. “What’s happening in the life of Keith?”

 

“Nothing special,” Keith said, with a shrug, putting his stuff away and tossing his sketchbook on his desk. 

 

“Girlfriend?” Hunk asked. Keith made a face. “Boyfriend?” Keith’s heart thumped. “Oh, I see,” Hunk said, grinning.

 

“We’re not dating,” Keith said, blushing. “I just made a… friend.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Hunk said, returning to his textbook. “Tell me when the wedding is, lover boy.”

  
  


-

  
  


Keith had pulled an all-nighter. No amount of coffee or energy drinks would help, mostly because Keith wouldn’t drink any of that stuff. And so he suffered.

 

He dragged himself into work, grunting at Lance, who was already there, and taking his place behind the counter. He opened up his sketchbook, mostly out of habit, and started to draw a few lines on a page that was only half-covered with drawings. He started to draw Lance, which was another habit, and he was so tired that he didn’t even notice Lance behind him.

 

“That is not Naruto fanart,” Lance said, and Keith had suddenly never been more awake in his life. He turned around, cheeks flaming, ready to defend himself, but all the wind went out of his sails as soon as he saw Lance’s amused smile. “Anatomy studies?” he joked.

 

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Keith replied, because his filter when tired was even worse than normal. He regretted it instantly.

 

“Oh,” Lance said, still grinning, leaning in closer. “I see. Pervert.”

 

“Thanks,” Keith said, because what else was he supposed to say?

 

“How many other drawings of me have you got in there?” Lance asked, taking the sketchbook from Keith’s sleep-deprived hands and flipping through it.    
  
“Give it back,” Keith said, trying in vain to grab it back, but Lance danced out of his way. As he flipped, the amused expression on his face melted into something else.

 

“These are all me?” Lance asked, looking back up at Keith, voice quiet.

 

“Well,” Keith said, ready to be buried six feet underground. “There’s some that  _ aren’t  _ you.” He was pathetic, really.

 

“But I look so…” He trailed off, and Keith saw his fingers trace over his very first sketch of him at the auditorium. The one where his body and heart had made the music. The one where Keith couldn’t look away.

 

“Beautiful,” Keith breathed, remembering and feeling. 

 

“I…” Lance shut the sketchbook, placing it back on the counter and backing away. “I have to go. Right now. Important stuff. Yeah.” He was gone before Keith could even think of something to say.

  
  


-

  
  


For the next few days, Keith wished that he wasn’t alive. Lance didn’t come into work, and Keith was left to wallow in his stupid feelings and stupid decisions and stupid stupid. Hunk had noticed his quickly deteriorating mental state and made him some cookies. They helped, but only while Keith was eating them.

 

Needless to say, they were gone within a day.

 

It was the weekend, and Keith had the day off, and he couldn’t focus on any of his homework. It seemed like it would have to be a day for wandering.

 

His feet more than his brain took him to the music hall, and instead of sneaking inside to escape the bitter cold, he went around the building to the back, where the courtyard was. Because of the sharp wind and cloudy skies, it was mostly empty. Keith went to a familiar tree and sat underneath it, pulling out his sketchbook.

 

He sketched out the courtyard, and then the bones of the tree above him, and then anything else that caught his eye. He was too busy trying hard not to think about anything at all that he didn’t notice the person walking toward him until he was standing over him.

 

“Hi,” Lance said, and Keith looked up, his heart shivering right along with his skin.

 

“Hey,” Keith said back, because what else was he supposed to say?   


“I’m sorry for running away that time,” Lance said, crouching down in front of Keith and rubbing the back of his neck. “That sucked.”

 

“It’s okay,” Keith said, even though it had made him want to die at least fifty times a day.

 

“Keith, do you…” He trailed off, blowing out a breath and making mist in the cool air. “Are you in love with me?”

 

Good question. “I don’t know,” Keith said with a shrug. He thought about it for a moment. He liked the way Lance looked, with his bronze skin and toned arms and legs and beautiful eyes and nose and lips. He liked when Lance made fun of him, and he liked when Lance smiled. He loved the way he played like the music was inside of him. “Maybe.”

“You’re so annoying,” Lance groaned, dropping down to sit in front of him. “The worst.”

 

“Right back at you,” Keith said.

 

“You didn’t even remember that you were the bane of my existence when we were kids.”

 

“To be fair,” Keith said, smiling a little. “I remembered you, but I didn’t remember your name.”

 

“That’s somehow worse,” Lance groaned, covering his face.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Keith found himself saying, and Lance looked up, his blue eyes wide and beautiful. 

 

“Do continue,” Lance said when Keith didn’t say anything else.

 

“And you say  _ I’m  _ the worst,” Keith said, rolling his eyes.

 

“Yeah.” He leaned in, and suddenly the cold didn’t matter anymore because Lance’s lips were on his, and his hands were on Lance’s freckled cheeks, and Lance’s fingers were burning lines over his chest. 

 

When they pulled away, Keith ran his thumb over Lance’s cheekbone, admiring the perfect lines of his face and the way Lance was looking at him like he was something beautiful. “Are you in love with me, Lance?” Keith asked, smiling.

 

Lance rolled his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, giving Keith a peck on the lips. “Maybe.” Another peck, but before he could pull away, Keith had his hand on the back of his neck and Lance’s fingers were in his hair and Keith had never felt more warm in his life.

 

“I can’t believe you used to bang on my walls for me to shut up,” Lance said, breaking the kiss.

 

“I can’t believe you held a grudge from middle school,” Keith said, laughing.

 

“Yeah, well, guess what,” Lance said, pinching Keith’s cheek. “Now I’m principle player at my dream college, and that punk ass kid that was the bane of my existence is now my pretty boyfriend,” he said, leaning back and throwing his arms up. “Grudges take me places.”

 

Keith tapped his thigh, finding that there was only one part of what Lance had said that he could focus on. “Boyfriend?” he asked.

 

Lance tapped his thigh back. “Boyfriend,” he agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> Keith was at the counter, sketching out Lance and in a state of a particular contentment that made everything around him a little softer.
> 
> "What are you staring at, mullet head?" Lance asked, and Keith looked up, his heart warm.
> 
> "You."
> 
> -
> 
> i hope you liked the soft fruits of my sadness. if you'd like to cry with me about banana fish, hmu up on twitter @wkwrdnrtrtl but beware since im a dirty multi-shipper. but still. i need someone to sob my eyes out with
> 
> thanks so much for reading <3


End file.
